The Lovers In This Bay Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Chainsaws buzz like bric-a-brac,
And so the traffic swarms:
Little white boys are angry that a black
Man will be king,
And so they cry out, but the multitudes
Do not echo such mutinous sawing:
I suppose I love them, but mostly her:
Dear God, she sings to me:
All my life she has put the sunlight into
A reasonable equation,
Even though I just read her, and now
Watch how she halfway poses for a photograph:
Maybe I am being unreal, even as tourists
Step out in meaty séances for the invitations
Of the lions’ coy grinning:
Their cars are left empty, like coffinous tombs,
The air-condition voluptuously droning:
The savannahs are not real, but tennis courts
Grown over with languorous weeds: Where will
The rich go now, with bodies out of style:
This she reads to me in meandering streams,
Her motions changing with Heraclitian whim:
I stare at her as if between the wrought-iron of
A centennial graveyard: The side of her face is
Scarred like mine,
As if something handsome has caught afire;
aroused, I wished she would
Think of me through the gown of thoughtless cells,
But such a whim is an unnecessary salesmanship:
I will grow to her in little time, even as the apple
Tree quivers, and the knowledge falls loose,
Shaken so from the serpent’s horrendously fetching
Tail: I loved her, but that was only high school,
And now she opens her blouse up to me part way,
Like her smile, as if I should touch her
Even though the distance is infinite; it is cleverly made,
And thus on this impenetrable shore I wait for her,
Eating everything until the horses are but bones,
My body quilled by so many arrows that the joints are
Harrowed, and cannot move in time or
Keep up with the lovers in this bay.